


In the Spirit of Falling in Love

by vhspeach



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, Arcades, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Holding Hands, M/M, Panic Attacks, Tenderness, Yearning, rated teen for some language but it's richie so, the works
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-29 11:28:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20081446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vhspeach/pseuds/vhspeach
Summary: Stan had never really tried to flirt before, prioritizing school above everything else, and he found it fully in character for him to start it and fail so badly. Leave it to Stan to accidentally come onto a straight boy.“Sorry, I--I didn’t mean--”“No! It’s uh, it’s cool,” Mike stammered. He took a short breath and looked around the room, saying his next words a little more quietly. “Better than cool, actually.”Mike flashed Stan a hesitant smile, andoh.Oh.Stan stared dumbfounded at Mike for a few seconds, feeling his palms get sweaty where they rested on the counter.Not a straight boy, then.





	In the Spirit of Falling in Love

**Author's Note:**

> posting day is finally here! this is the first writing event i've ever participated in, and it was such an amazing experience. this fic definitely caused me a lot of stress because i've never written a story with a minimum word count before, but it ended up becoming something i can be proud of. i want to thank my [beta](http://transrich.tumblr.com) for fixing some silly wordings and stupid mistakes and also [kayley](http://scribbleworm.tumblr.com), the amazing artist who created the prompt for this in the first place! another special shout out to the mods of the it reverse big bang for being accommodating and very approachable. all of you have been so great in making this reverse big bang so awesome, and it's definitely convinced me to participate in more events like this in the future.
> 
> without further ado, i hope you enjoy this fic!

Summers in Derry, Maine had turned into clockwork for Stanley Uris. He woke up every morning and ate the same thing for breakfast (strawberry oatmeal with a touch of cinnamon), then spent the next couple hours at his college prep course getting ready for scholarship applications and admittance essays. After a lunch that consisted of a sandwich made with whatever leftover ingredients they had in the fridge and promptly ignoring his father’s comments about an internship with the Kaplans, he did the only thing that relieved any amount of his constant stress and rode his bike to the arcade. 

Every Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, he worked the night shift alone at Spirit Arcade, Derry’s oldest arcade. Technically, it was Derry’s only arcade, and since arcades went out of style in the nineties when handheld games became more popular, the fact that it was an old arcade went without saying. During the school year, Stan spent his shifts at the arcade getting caught up on homework and chatting with the couple regular customers that frequented the place and knew him by name; he picked up his vegetarian Pad Thai from the place next door and ate it in the back, humming along to the eighties pop station that was always playing faintly through the place and listening for the chime of the door. 

Spirit Arcade was Stan’s home away from home, and later in the week when he finally got a little bored with the peace and quiet, Saturday night rolled around.

Every Saturday, Stan worked the night shift with Richie. He and Richie had never been as close as some of the other members of the Losers Club, but nights spent running around in an empty arcade until well after dark was its own unique concoction that had a knack for bringing people closer together.

Since the owners of Spirit always scheduled themselves for the day shift so they could be out in time to be with their kids, Stan always worked the four to eleven closing shift. It wasn’t ever that busy, most of the kids thinning out by five or so when their parents called them home for dinner, and only a couple older kids coming in after that who brought their own quarters and didn’t need to interact with him at all. Stan’s job was mostly to keep the place clean and in working order for the customers and to collect the coins out of the machines every night with Richie manning vending machine stocking duty so he could steal some Coca Colas out of the boxes, and when that was said and done, the two of them had nothing to do but come up with ways to stay occupied. 

The arcade had a back room that Richie had dubbed “The ArCave” early on, decked out with some office chairs, a table, and screens hooked up to ancient CCTV cameras that recorded the interior of the store where the boys spent most of their Saturday shifts slacking off and ordering takeout from the menus stuck to the bulletin board. They acknowledged that Spirit Arcade had probably been a moneymaker in its prime, but being that it was way behind the technological progress train, it tended to attract more young parents stopping in to check it out and nostalgic college students looking to be kids again than its intended demographic of much younger children. 

Stan and Richie weren’t complaining, though, because that meant they were getting paid eleven dollars an hour to do almost nothing.

Stan had clocked in for his Saturday shift about an hour ago, and the place was completely empty. He and Richie were engrossed in a game of paper football in the back room, having drawn up a playing field weeks ago on a particularly hot day when everyone was out taking advantage of swimming pools and sprinkler parks.

“That’s another point for me, Stanley. You’re not even athletic in paper football,” Richie teased as he reached across the table to grab the folded paper triangle. “Hope you’re not banking on a sports scholarship.”

“Fuck off, Richie,” Stan replied, setting his fingers up in two L’s to simulate goal posts. “At least my GPA is good enough to actually get in.”

“I’m good enough to get in your mom!” Richie yelled and flicked the paper football up and over Stan’s shoulder, sending it flying through the open door and over behind the front counter somewhere they couldn’t see from the back room. “Shit!”

“Ha! That’s what you get for saying shit about my mom.” Stan got up and walked out and around to the front counter, searching the ground for where the paper football could have ended up perfectly camouflaged among the geometric shapes. The arcade’s carpet was still the original from the eighties, meant to look like a bowling alley carpet, and Stan was always hesitant to even touch it despite vacuuming it every night based on how many germs had been there over the years and the odd discoloration from unknown stains that refused to come out.

He was bent underneath the display of shirts and keychains for sale when he heard the front door chime.

“Welcome to Spirit Arcade,” Stan stood up and recited automatically, “your stop for vintage arcade games. Did you bring your own quarters or did you need to exchange--”

At that moment, Stan registered the customer who walked in. He was just a little taller than Stan himself and around the same age, with more defined muscles than any teenage boy had a right to have outside of a CW show. He was looking around the arcade with wide eyes when saw Stan and smiled, the flashing neon lights from the games leaving smudges of color across his smooth brown skin and white t-shirt.

“Hi,” the boy said, his voice rich and smooth. “I’m Mike.”

The logical part of Stan’s brain told him that it wasn’t even his turn to help the customers--he’d helped the last two figure out the Dig Dug game with the button that sticks, and Richie promised he’d help the next two to make it up to Stan (which meant he’d probably do one and complain forever about it or be conveniently missing when the door chimed.) Despite this, Stan found himself glued to the spot and not going anywhere anytime soon as the first synth notes of Cyndi Lauper’s _ “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” _ started in the background. It really was completely ridiculous, and Stan found himself blaming stress and teenage hormones for the way his chest squeezed, making the whole thing feeling like a bad episode of Riverdale.

He snapped out of his mini freak out to reply to Mike.

“I--Stan,” he said. “I’m Stan. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too.” Mike stuck his hand out to shake with Stan, and in his haste to lean over the counter, Stan tripped over his own feet and almost missed the shake altogether. Mike’s handshake was firm and warm, and as he laughed good-naturedly at Stan’s mishap, Stan thought, _ oh no_.

_ Not during college prep. _

“So, um,” Stan’s voice cracked, and he quickly cleared his throat to cover it up. “Did you need quarters? Or--”

“Oh, no,” Mike replied. “My grandpa just bought a new farm out here, so I’m checking out the town before I have to start helping him move everything in.”

“Oh, cool. That explains the, um.” Stan made a gesture to his own upper arms. “The uh, the muscle.”

Despite scoring highly on every speech presentation to date, Stan was managing to make a fool of himself every time he opened his mouth in front of Mike. Damn teenage hormones and Cyndi Lauper and Stan’s own lack of experience with talking to cute boys; it’s not like they were that easy to come by in Derry.

Mike laughed and reached his hand up to rub the back of his neck. “Yeah, it’s mostly from hauling crates and bags of food around. It’s an unfortunate side effect.”

“Not for me.”

It took a moment too long for Stan to realize exactly what he said, and Mike’s eyes were wide as he looked at him. While what he said was absolutely the truth, Stan’s face went beet red, and he anxiously glanced around the arcade for something to save him, finding absolutely nothing. Stan had never really tried to flirt before, prioritizing school above everything else, and he found it fully in character for him to start it and fail so badly. Leave it to Stan to accidentally come onto a straight boy.

“Sorry, I--I didn’t mean--”

“No! It’s uh, it’s cool,” Mike stammered. He took a short breath and looked around the room, saying his next words a little more quietly. “Better than cool, actually.”

Mike flashed Stan a hesitant smile, and oh. 

_ Oh _.

Stan stared dumbfounded at Mike for a few seconds, feeling his palms get sweaty where they rested on the counter. _Not a straight boy, then._

“Oh,” Stan breathed, wiping his hands on his jeans, his face still flushed bright crimson. “Um. Cool.”

Mike huffed out another laugh, his hands going into his pockets. “So, Stan, I think there actually is something you can help me with. Do you have a pen and paper--”

The sound of the door chime rang through the store, and Stan looked up to see a mom holding the door open for her two elementary-aged kids who were already loudly running up to the front counter.

“Girls, slow down!” Annoyed already, the mom started digging through her purse as she followed her daughters.

Mike moved out of the way so the girls had room to press their hands into the front of the glass display of merchandise while waiting for their mother to come up to the register, effectively smearing fingerprints and who knows what other substances onto the clear surface. There were smudges all over the display, and Stan mentally jotted it down as a Richie problem.

“Um, I should get going,” Mike said reluctantly. “My grandpa is gonna need my help setting everything up, and he doesn’t like it when I come home late.”

Stan felt his heart sink. “Oh, okay.” 

The mother approached the counter, pulling her wallet out of her purse and completely ignoring Mike off to the side. “Excuse me, I’d like to get some quarters.”

Stan grabbed the bills she handed him and started punching the values into the ancient register system, glancing up to see Mike scribbling something down on the back of a flier for a local farmer’s market that was left out on the counter. Stan’s heart rate picked up and he squinted at the paper trying to read it from far away. Could it be--

“Excuse me, sir, my kids would like to play now.”

Stan was just holding the money, having stopped only halfway through the transaction due to his racing heart.

“Right, sorry ma’am.” Stan worked at finishing the transaction as the flier slid across the counter to his left. He glanced down and tried to read it as he counted out and handed the woman her quarters, putting on an extra big smile to make up for the delay. Evidently, she was not impressed, as she all but yanked the quarters from his hand and turned around, her daughters rowdy but in tow behind her.

“Customers,” Stan swore under his breath and shook his head incredulously, picking up the note in Mike’s neat and tidy handwriting. Already, it sent a fluttery feeling through his chest.

**when do you work next? :)**

Stan snapped his head up to look around for where Mike had gone, and he found him walking toward the front door.

“Wednesday!” Stan yelled so Mike could hear him. “I work on Wednesday!”

The mom glared at him from the Pac-Man machine her daughter was playing, but Stan didn’t care. He saw Mike smile and push open the door, the chime going off once more as Mike walked out into the evening.

“See ya Wednesday then, Stan,” he called, stepping out into the June breeze. Stan couldn’t help the small smile on his face as he started dreaming about his Wednesday shift and hoping it would get here as soon as possible.

A shuffling noise from the back room brought Stan back to the present, the door to the ArCave opening as Richie stepped out.

“Jesus, Stanley, how long does it take to find a goddamn paper football?” Richie shoved his foot underneath the shelving unit and kicked it out, the paper football sliding a few feet across the carpet.

“Beep beep, dude, we have customers.” Stan bent down to pick up the football and to avoid the probable wrath of the mother whose children they’d exposed to a swear word, Richie leaning over the counter to look at the woman.

“Not too bad,” Richie assessed. “You think she’s single?”

“Who, the one with the butterfly clip or the one with the lollipop in her mouth?”

“God, Stanley, that’s so gross!” Richie gagged, playfully kicking Stan where he was crouched on the floor. “Come on, it’s your turn to miss the shot.”

Richie stomped back into the ArCave, and Stan straightened up with the paper football in one hand. He took one glance out the front door, hoping maybe he’d see a glimpse of Mike, but all he saw was a couple of birds he’d taken note of earlier and the sun setting over the mall in the distance. He reached down to feel the piece of paper in his pocket with Mike’s handwriting on it and practically skipped into the back room. 

“What’s got you in a good mood?” Richie asked, setting up his hands for the goalposts.

“Nothing. Just so excited to make this shot and prove to you I’m the superior athlete.”

“Well, go on then,” Richie goaded. “It’s not gonna launch itself.”

Stan set it up and flicked, the paper football not even getting airborne, hopping and skittering a few feet across the table before bumping into Richie’s arm.

“Oh, what a spectacular shot by Stan the man!” Richie yelled through his hands, simulating a megaphone. “Jerry, I think he just might win the Heisman this year!”

Stan kicked Richie under the table and they both started laughing as it devolved into a full-on kicking battle, Stan careful to keep a hand on the paper in his pocket to keep it from flying out. His mind flashed back to Mike: his eyes, his voice, his smile and wave as he walked out of the store and made it known that he wanted to see Stan again. He felt the faint blush as it stained his cheeks and hoped he’d be able to blame it on physical exertion.

Richie let out a panicked screech as Stan landed a kick just left of his crotch, and he heard the lady from earlier begin rapidly ringing the bell at the counter. 

Stan sighed, watching Richie get up and wink at him before walking out to the front. He just had to make it through until Wednesday.

-

Monday and Tuesday’s prep classes went by in a daze, spent daydreaming instead of hanging onto every word and rapidly taking notes as was usual. Even Stan’s teacher could tell he wasn’t as engaged as he normally was, and he made an effort to flag Stan down after class to talk to him. Not wanting to have to explain, Stan evaded the teacher and quickly hopped onto his bike to ride home, spending the rest of the day in his room and going downstairs only for a quiet dinner with his family and a snack later at night. By the time he was waving goodbye to the owners and clocking into his shift at the arcade on Wednesday, he was shaking just a little bit with anticipation and nervous jitters. Mike was supposed to come to see him today, and if the normal Wednesday crowd came in (which was exactly zero people), Stan could talk to him without interruption and for as long as he liked. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t looked up articles on how to talk to boys just so he could be as fully prepared as possible for whatever was going to happen, but he’d be dead before he admitted it.

As for now, he waited.

He busied himself with wiping down and sanitizing all the machines in the arcade to keep his rattling hands and jumpy heart occupied, scrubbing harder at some of the sticky spots that wouldn’t come off as easily. He wiped down all the screens and buttons and knobs, the bright neon lights flashing at him to insert a quarter if he wanted to play. Stan was required to know the basics and instructions for how to play every game in the arcade, but he’d always had a couple specifically that were his favorites, and he and Richie even held the high scores on a few of the lesser-played ones that would probably stay there long after they both went to college. It was a fun thought to Stan, that regardless of where his life took him, a part of him would be left at this arcade forever.

(Realistically, he knew it would only be there until the machine broke or was reset, but the sentiment was comforting nonetheless.)

After Stan had thoroughly sanitized all the machines, it was forty-five minutes later and his nerves hadn’t calmed at all. Nobody had come into the arcade since Stan had clocked in, and the silence was only lending to his growing anxiety. 

What if Mike had changed his mind about visiting Stan? What if he’d decided he didn’t think Stan was worth it after all or forgotten about the whole thing entirely? What if it was all some sort of sick joke?

Stan reassured himself that Mike wasn’t that kind of person, that he was charming and sweet and maybe a little dreamy if Stan let himself go that far, but the little voice in the back of his head reminded him that he didn’t really know Mike at all.

Having feelings this strong for someone he didn’t really know yet scared Stan. His expectations for how everything was going to go could be shattered within the span of a single conversation, and all the research and practice in the world wouldn’t be able to prepare him for it.

Putting the rag and spray bottle away underneath the counter, Stan sat on the floor against the wall and waited, nervously picking at his nails. It was a habit he had meant to kick a long time ago, but the constant stress of school never quite let him rest long enough to commit to it.

Luckily, before he could do too much damage, the door chimed.

Stan stood up so fast that he got a little dizzy. On instinct, he said the “Welcome to Spirit Arcade” greeting, and he couldn’t stop the smile on his face or the fluttering in his stomach when he saw that the person who made the door chime was Mike.

“Hey, Stan,” Mike greeted, walking up to the counter and crossing his arms on top of it. 

“Hey, Mike. It’s good to see--”

“I’m glad you’re here,” Mike rushed out.

Stan furrowed his brows, confused. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Oh, uh. I just thought maybe... well, I thought maybe...”

“I lied about my work schedule because I didn’t really want to see you?”

Mike looked down, embarrassed. “I, uh... maybe?”

His own nerves gone, Stan started to giggle.

“Hey, what’s so funny?” Mike asked Stan, looking at him warily.

“Nothing, it’s just--I was worried you wouldn’t show.”

Both boys stared at each other for a few moments, then burst into a fit of full-blown laughter, blocking out the native noises in the arcade and filling in the empty spaces with their own. At that moment, Stan felt silly, and stupid, and just a bit like he was floating. Because he did know Mike, of course he did, and all the worry and doubt that he’d suffered through over the past three days was proven completely obsolete in about ten seconds.

Their laughter died down and Mike cleared his throat. “Well, I guess that clears everything up.”

Stan beamed at him. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess it does.”

They spent the next few seconds staring at each other as if they were in a trance until Mike went “Oh!” and reached into his back pocket. “I brought a five. To get quarters, you know?” He pulled out the bill from his wallet and held it out to Stan, gesturing with his free hand to the rest of the arcade. “I was hoping you could show me how all this works.”

Taking the five-dollar bill from Mike’s hand shouldn’t have been a big deal, but as Stan reached out and grabbed it, his fingers brushed against Mike’s and sent a flash of lightning up through his hand and through his chest, tingling. He quickly punched the numbers into the register and counted out the quarters, putting them one by one into a cheap plastic cup and sliding it across the counter to Mike.

“So, where do you want to start?”

After careful contemplation, Mike chose Space Invaders. Once Stan showed him how it worked and what buttons to press, the two boys spent the next hour fruitlessly attempting to beat the high score on the machine that was most likely set by someone in the early nineties. So far, they weren’t even close to the top ten; still, every time Mike defeated a wave of aliens, Stan cheered for him from where he was sat on the floor next to a bottle of Coke and an open bag of chips. Mike had tried to steal some of the chips earlier, but Stan had swatted his hand away claiming that if Mike got chip grease on the machine that he’d just cleaned then Mike would be the one to wipe it off, and that had deterred him from stealing any more.

Mike’s cup of quarters was sitting on the machine, almost empty from the countless games he’d lost and had to start over and the many “one more try”s that Stan had goaded him into doing. 

“I’d get your money back out of the machine, but technically that’s against the rules,” Stan joked once Mike’s quarters ran out and the game’s pay screen popped back up. “I wouldn’t want to get fired.”

Mike let out his signature short laugh that was slowly becoming one of Stan’s favorite sounds. “That’s okay, I’d feel bad for taking it back. This place can’t be making that much money anyway.”

“It really isn’t,” Stan confirmed, pushing himself up off the floor and grabbing his things. “This place is more of a side gig for the owners than anything else. They both have other jobs, so it doesn’t really matter how big of a profit this place turns out as long as their other income can supplement it.” He turned around and headed back to the counter to throw away his trash, Mike following him. “I think they only keep it open out of nostalgia for people like--people my age.”

Mike hopped up on the front of the counter, sitting down and swinging his legs out. “Wow, you know a lot about this place.”

“I’ve worked here for a while,” Stan admitted, smirking. “And the owners have a really hard time keeping their mouths shut.”

He hopped up on the counter next to Mike, their legs bumping together briefly before resting inches apart, dangling over the edge. 

They sat there on the arcade counter for an indeterminable amount of time, talking about Mike’s life on a farm and Stan filling him in on the town’s gossip and lore. Stan learned that Mike had mostly been home-schooled, but would be going to their high school for his senior year.

“My grandma always taught me,” Mike explained, “but she passed away last year, and my granddad doesn’t have time to teach me and run the farm. I went to school last year, but now I have to meet a bunch of new people who have known each other since they were kids.” He picked at a spot on his jeans, his arm brushing against Stan’s. “It just kinda sucks, you know?”

Stan leaned in and bumped Mike’s shoulder with his own. “Hey, you’ll have me, right?”

Mike looked up at him and smiled, a soft, tender thing, and said, “Yeah, I hope so.”

Stan blushed, looking down at his feet. His hand had been resting on the counter next to him, and he felt the brush of hesitant fingers over the back of it. His heart started racing so badly that he didn’t think he could look at Mike without imploding, but he slowly turned his hand over so his palm was facing up, and Mike laced their fingers together. Stan couldn’t say how long they sat like that--in silence save for the occasional crooning of Freddie Mercury--hands quickly getting sweaty but neither boy willing to let go. 

“Do you think they’ll ever close this place?” Mike asked softly. 

“I hope not,” answered Stan, gazing around at the arcade with fondness and familiarity. “I’ve always come here. It would just be one more thing that’s changing.”

Mike didn’t press for more, and Stan had never been more grateful. Even though most of his time was spent worrying about his future with his college prep classes and pressure from his parents, he tried to spend every other moment he had clinging to all the constants in his life that wouldn’t be constants in a year. Stan noticed that even with how hard he tried to hold them, grip them tightly and never let go, every day he felt them slipping more and more through his fingers. 

As he sat there with his hand in Mike’s, he found himself praying that the same thing wouldn’t happen to them.

They separated only once the sun had started to set, Mike having to go home for dinner and Stan starting to worry about getting in trouble with the owners on the off-chance that they decided to look at the cameras. Mike slid down off the counter, pulling Stan with him by their connected hands.

“Will you be here tomorrow?” Mike inquired.

Only if you will, Stan thought. 

“Yeah, four to eleven,” he said.

Mike looked satisfied and said to Stan, “Well, it just so happens that my schedule is clear tomorrow from four to eleven.”

A smile grew on Stan that lit up his whole face, and Mike rubbed his thumb over the back of Stan’s hand, a quiet reminder that even though he had to leave, he wasn’t going anywhere. Stan could barely feel him go.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Stan.” Mike walked toward the door backward, never breaking eye contact and almost tripping over a garbage can in the process.

Stan laughed in a way he hadn’t since he was much younger, openly and carefree, and Mike gave him the finger as fondly as was possible.

Still giggling, Stan said, “See ya tomorrow, Mike.”

The taller boy backed up into the door and pushed it open, keeping his eyes on Stan until the door closed and he had to grab his bike from the rack outside. Stan watched him unlock the chain and ride away toward the farm on the edge of town. His hand still tingled with warmth where Mike had held it, and Stan rubbed and clenched his palm to make sure the whole thing was real. He bit back a smile and walked back around behind the counter, grabbing some trash bags and starting early on his closing duties.

It wasn’t until ten o’clock when he got a text from Bev in the Losers’ chat that he realized he forgot to ask Mike for his number, and if he yelled out a loud “Fuck!” and hit his head accidentally on the back of the vending machine, then nobody was there to hear it.

-

Waking up on Thursday morning with a fluttery feeling lingering in his stomach, Stan had initially wondered if all of the previous night had been a dream. His brain found the conclusion easily enough in its addled, early-morning state, seeing as every other encounter like that that he’d had with a boy had been either a dream or never more than a simple fantasy. The only thing convincing Stan that his night with Mike was indeed real was the tingling feeling he got when he dragged his fingers over the palm of his own hand, the nerves there still reacting to the ghost of Mike’s touch.

He ate and got dressed in a haze, the ever-present sensation allowing him to easily recall all the details until he’d relived it enough times to commit it to memory forever. Stan couldn’t quite get the smile to leave his face as he got ready for his prep class, and he dodged and skirted around his mom’s greeting and his dad’s comments about him growing up and getting a real job so they wouldn’t end up asking him any deeper questions that he’d rather not answer.

(“Still working at that arcade?” His dad would ask as if he hadn’t asked the same question before and didn’t already know the answer.

“Yeah, dad. Since sophomore year.”

“You should think about getting an internship with the Kaplans. They have a spot open for you.”

“I know, dad.”)

His teacher took notice of the abrupt change in Stan’s mood once again, this time his anxiety from the previous day being replaced with the feeling like his head was floating somewhere in the clouds. None of the information from that class made a home anywhere in Stan’s brain, but since he used the workbook that went along with the course, Stan figured he could just teach himself the material and catch up from there. 

He decided to take advantage of that, because for once, getting into college was the last thing on his mind.

Clocking in for his Thursday shift at 3:59 and throwing his stuff in the back room, Stan counted his drawer and waited, full of restless energy. He wasn’t nearly as nervous as he was yesterday; Mike said that he would be coming to the arcade to see Stan, and now that Stan knew for sure that what was growing between him and Mike was mutual, all he could feel was excitement. He spent his time bouncing on the balls of his feet and wiping down the same spots on the counter over and over, desperate to find something to do with his hands even if he knew those stains had been there since before he was born. He was humming along to “_ Everybody Wants to Rule the World _ _”_ as he walked back and forth, checking and rechecking to make sure everything was stocked.

As much as Stan liked Mike, he couldn’t keep his lack of experience from getting in the way of being able to be completely at ease.

He’d had crushes before, of course; every teenager had. For Stan, it was always the boys who were the last ones left in dodgeball, or the outgoing, popular jocks who always had time to help freshmen find their way around, or the boy who would do anything for his little brother if it meant seeing him smile one more time.

Even though all these boys had made a lasting impact on Stan and what he considered to be “his type”, Mike was different. Mike looked at Stan like he did so much more than just take up space in an empty room; he looked at Stan like he couldn’t look at anything else, like he couldn’t possibly tear his eyes away for more than a second. When Mike was around, Stan felt like he filled the whole room from the intensity of the look in Mike’s eyes, like the room would feel different to Mike if he wasn’t there.

He’d never been looked at that way before by anyone, and he knew that everything he’d just described was also the exact way he looked at Mike.

Stan had had crushes before, but none of them had ever turned out to be quite like this.

Both his Thursday and Friday shifts were made significantly less boring by the addition of having Mike there cracking jokes and standing just close enough that Stan could feel his body heat, sending flashes of warmth through his skin and shivers down his spine. There was definitely a flirty nature to their conversations now, each boy throwing out a line every once in a while to see if it would catch or be rejected, and Stan realized he’d probably blushed more since he’d met Mike than from any other previous occasions combined. 

On the rare happenstance that a customer walked in, Mike rushed to duck under the counter and always poked at Stan’s legs while he talked, trying to mess up his script or his transaction. It mostly just devolved into terribly-aimed kicks to Mike’s elbows and hands, customers shooting worried glances over the counter in response to the assorted muffled grunts and shuffling noises.

“You should just get a job here,” Stan suggested one time while they were both sitting behind the counter. “That way you’d at least be getting paid to do nothing.”

“If everything you said about this place is true, I can’t imagine they could afford to pay me,” Mike countered. “Plus, I’d only wanna work here if it could be with you. Otherwise, that defeats the whole purpose.”

Stan turned red at that, knocking his knee into Mike’s and mumbling “shut up” as Mike giggled, brushing his knuckles against the side of Stan’s head where his hair started to curl. 

“You know, you’re cute when you’re embarrassed.”

The only reaction Stan could have had besides his heart doing somersaults in his ribcage was his cheeks warming even further.

The two boys were stocking up the soda bottles and various chip bags in the vending machine on Friday night when Stan’s phone started dinging almost constantly, him having forgotten to put it on silent before he clocked in. Mike finished with the Sprites, straightened up, and leaned against the wall in the small space between the boxes.

“Who’s blowing up your phone, Stan?” Mike attempted to tease, but a little apprehension snuck its way into his voice. “Got a girl back home I don’t know about?”

Without looking at Mike, Stan smirked. “Pretty sure you’re asking the wrong guy for that.” 

Stan reached his hand into his back pocket and pulled out his phone, quickly checking the screen before sliding the ringer off with a quiet click and putting it back. “It’s just the Losers’ group chat,” he explained. When Mike shot him a confused look, he elaborated. “It’s what my group of friends calls ourselves. We were all bullied in middle school for being nerds and weirdos, and it eventually brought us all together in a way. I guess we all kind of were in the Losers’ Club, and the name just sort of stuck.”

His phone continued to vibrate every few seconds in his pocket as he finished stocking up the different kinds of chip bags. _They know I’m at work,_ Stan thought, stuffing one more Dorito’s bag into place. _ Why can’t they just text each other? _

“Tell me about them.” 

Stan looked up at Mike, his eyebrows raised incredulously. “You want to know about a group of people who call themselves the Losers?”

Mike grinned. “Hell yeah, I do.”

Stan stood up and locked the door of the vending machine, grabbing the empty boxes to put in the recycling while Mike followed him into the back and listened while Stan ran through all the names of his best friends and semi-introduced Mike to the members of the Losers Club.

“I guess Bill’s kinda the leader. He has a younger brother named Georgie who always tried to tag along with us as a kid. Don’t get me wrong, Bill is probably the best big brother in the whole world, but even he thought it was annoying. Georgie has his own crowd now, though.”

Mike nodded from his seat on top of the ArCave table, watching Stan grab t-shirts out of containers to stock out front in the glass display case. “What about Beverly?”

“Oh, Bev’s great,” Stan answered, setting all the boxes back in their correct place and loading his arms with the t-shirts. “She’s the fire and energy of our group. She and Ben have been dating for a while, and he mellows her out a little bit, but even he can’t do a job that everyone else has forever deemed impossible.”

Stan set the large armful of t-shirts down on the table next to Mike to sort through the sizes and designs. “Putting her and Richie in a room together results in high levels of queer chaos. The sheriff can smell when they’re in the immediate vicinity.”

“You said Richie works here too, right?” Mike asked, picking at a hole in his jeans. “What’s that like?”

“It’s so fun,” Stan gushed. “We basically have no customers whenever we work together, so we get to do whatever the fuck we want back here until we hear the door chime. Usually, Richie comes up with these grand ideas that will _ definitely _get us in trouble, so only about half of them end up passing my common sense filter. It’s a miracle he hasn’t been fired yet.” Stan shifted the pile of shirts over and pointed to the table. “You’re sitting on a makeshift paper football field right now: Richie’s idea.”

Mike glanced down to look at the table where Stan had cleared it enough to see one of the endzones. “I see.”

His uncomfortable tone made Stan look up from where he was folding t-shirts, and he was met with the picture of Mike refusing to meet his gaze, apprehension painted all over his face.

“Mike, what is it?”

“You said Richie’s gay?” 

Oh_ , _ Stan thought. _ So that’s what this is about. _

“He’s bi,” Stan said, his voice flat. Mike said nothing in return, and Stan sighed, moving closer and boldly placing his hand over Mike’s where it rested on the table.

“And he and Eddie have been head over heels for each other since the sixth grade.”

All the tension immediately drained out of Mike’s body. “Oh.”

Seeing his assumption confirmed, Stan pulled back and returned to organizing the arcade shirts, his hands shaking just a little. “We’re all just waiting for them to get their heads out of their own asses about it. Watching them be in complete denial while also so loudly pining after each other constantly is so tiring.”

He finished with the t-shirts and carried them out to the display, Mike hopping off the table and following behind him. “Richie’s gross too,” Stan continued. “You don’t have to worry about me being here with him alone. If that’s what you were worried about.”

Mike went red and started to stutter in denial, causing Stan to laugh in triumph as he locked the cabinet back up. Due to Mike’s positive reaction, Stan decided to take a leap of faith.

“It’s okay, you can just say you like me,” Stan flirted brazenly, feeling a little more confident than he did two days ago. There was still a little inkling of doubt, a singular thought that maybe Mike wasn’t feeling this way after all, but he decided to ignore the voice of anxiety in the hopes that something could come of it. Stan was tired of waiting for something to come to him.

Mike didn’t say anything at first. Getting worried, Stan turned around toward him, the anxiety that he brushed away now settling back into his chest until he fully registered the look on Mike’s face. The taller boy was giving him _ that _ look again _ , _the look like nothing else in the room mattered but him, and Mike walked just a little closer and lightly brushed the backs of his fingers down Stan’s cheek. They left trails of soothing fire in their wake.

“I do like you,” Mike acknowledged just above a whisper, his fingers leaving Stan’s face and dropping to take the shorter boy’s hand in his own. He slowly lifted it up to his lips and pressed a kiss on the back, applying no more pressure than if a butterfly had landed gently onto the skin, and let himself linger there. Never once did he break eye contact with Stan; and just like that, all of Stan’s bravado was gone. It melted through his shoes and dissolved somewhere down into the black and neon carpet, collecting there with all the other stains from nostalgia-worthy childhoods and bleeding teenage hearts.

As Stan stood there and shook in his skin that was different now after he had been touched_ , _ gentled, caressed, Mike murmured into his hand. 

“I really do.”

“Oh,” Stan said dumbly, his voice trembling. “Cool.” 

Mike still held onto him, a few seconds of silence passing between them. Stan’s heart was racing; he was convinced anyone standing in the arcade would have been able to hear it thumping loudly against his rib cage and pulsing warmth and shivers through his body. After a few moments, Mike’s face started to contort, and in no time at all he was laughing, loud and joyous and a little taken aback.

“_ Cool? _ ” Mike wheezed, struggling to breathe. “I confess my feelings to you and all you can say is _ cool?” _

“I panicked!” Stan said, starting to giggle along with Mike. “I’ve never done this before!” 

The taller boy let go of his hand to grab the counter and shoved his head into his arms, his shoulders shaking up and down with the force of it, both boys a little delirious from strong emotion. They laughed together and time felt suspended, giving them room to just be together for a while in the early summer evening.

“You’re something else, Stanley Uris,” Mike said, wiping the tears from his eyes as he regained his composure. The two boys made eye contact and dissolved back into a fit of giggles, Stan shoving his face into Mike’s shoulder trying to contain himself.

Anybody walking by the arcade would have seen them pressed into each other, faces red with exhilaration and nerves fried from an overflow of feelings, and would probably think that they were just two teenage boys having a bit of fun on a day off; but if they looked a little closer, peered a little further into the window, they would see something different. They’d see two lost souls finding a home for the first time, dancing and intertwining and settling into place.

Nobody walked past the arcade the whole night, but that wasn’t a problem for Stan and Mike. They didn’t want to be seen. Stan wanted to keep Mike all to himself while he still could so he could bask in the glow of knowing he was on the edge of something, hanging over the precipice and waiting for the split second when he would fall, hard and fast with his stomach dropping out underneath him.

For now, he closed up the arcade when it was time and walked out of the building, hand in hand with Mike and hoping that maybe now he could leave Derry without being pushed, finally having something to run toward. 

-

“Who is it, Stanley?” Richie asked, pushing his glasses up and leaning across the table to look at Stan’s phone that was currently vibrating and blasting his ringtone. Richie had changed it to some unintelligible rap song one shift and Stan kept forgetting to change it since no one ever called him. 

Confused, Stan looked down at the screen and saw a familiar face staring up at him, the man perfectly put together in the profile picture Stan had snagged off Facebook. A hot flash of anxiety traveled out from his chest and raced through his limbs once he registered who it was.

Stan gulped. “It’s my dad.”

Richie’s eyes widened. He’d heard almost everything Stan had ever had to say about his father and knew that this wasn’t about to go well. “What does Old McDonald want?”

“I don’t know,” Stan breathed.

They both stared at his phone like it could have been a dangerous animal, the ringtone its menacing roar before it timed out and went quite, the screen going black.

“He knows I’m at work,” Stan said quietly. “Maybe he’ll just leave a message.”

Even throughout the years as Stan grew up, he and his father had never quite gotten along. Being the rabbi’s son had always had certain expectations that came along with it: having to be the best kid in Hebrew school, having to throw the biggest blowout of a Bar Mitzvah where every word he recited from the Torah was pronounced perfectly, and having to grow up and marry a Jewish girl of good standing so he could start a family of his own.

At some point, Stan had realized that everything he was expected to do had the end result of making his father look good in the eyes of the temple, but Stan couldn’t seem to ever get any of it right.

He still struggled with Hebrew, having spent Sunday after Sunday doodling birds in his notes and worksheets when he was supposed to be paying attention to the lessons. For the most part, the only people he ended up inviting to his Bar Mitzvah himself were the Losers, and needless to say, his father was not impressed. 

Especially when Bev started dancing with a girl, and Richie wouldn’t stop trying to pronounce words in “Jewish”.

And as for the bit where he got hitched to a nice girl, got her pregnant, and had as many Jewish babies as he could, well. By the time that expectation eventually became relevant, Stan had already had the realization that it wasn’t going to happen.

His father was pretty much the only reason Stan was in all of the prep courses for college to begin with, and his job at the arcade was clearly a sore spot between them as it was the only thing Stan was doing for himself. They were as distant as they’d ever been, and this was why Stan and Richie stood in silence, waiting for Stan’s phone to do something.

Instead of getting a voicemail notification, it rang again.

“Fuck,” Richie whispered. He looked at Stan and his eyes were wide, made almost comical by the thick glasses he wore. “I guess you gotta answer it.”

Stan took a deep and shaky breath and picked up his phone, sliding the bar over to the green answer button and holding it up to his ear.

“Hey, Dad.”

_ “Stanley,” _ his father said dismissively. _ “I have good news.” _

“You do?” Stan glanced warily at Richie, who was squished close to Stan and hanging onto every word. Something being good news for his father was almost never good news for him.

_ “Yes. I talked to the Kaplans, and they fully arranged a spot for you at the accounting firm. It’s just data entry and file sorting for now, but it gets your foot in the door. They said you can start on Monday after your prep class.” _

Stan froze. He thought this whole internship with the Kaplans was one of those dad things that always got mentioned but never came to fruition. Despite his father’s insistence and his mother’s cool complacency, he’d never wanted to be an accountant. All accountants did was sit in a stuffy office all day looking at numbers and spreadsheets, and Stan couldn’t imagine a world where that was his life. 

He’d always needed a little bit of color.

_ “You’d have to quit your job at the arcade, of course, but that shouldn’t be a problem—” _

At this calm assumption, Stan lost it.

“Shouldn’t be a problem?” Stan cut in, taking a risk. “I don’t work here for the money, I work here because I like it here.”

_ “Nonsense,” _ his father replied. _ “You’ll work for the Kaplans and get some nice experience on your resume before you even get to college. It’ll look way better than—” _

“Than a job I actually enjoy? A job that doesn’t make me wanna blow my brains out?” Stan’s voice was low, trembling with emotions he was trying so hard not to let loose. Richie hadn’t moved, frozen in place. Stan could tell he was shocked by the bold nature of his words, and if he was being honest, Stan was shocked himself. He wasn’t sure where they were coming from, but now that the dam was open, he couldn’t wrench it closed again.

_ “Stanley,” _ his father reprimanded, taken aback. _ “Don’t joke about things like that.” _

Stan gulped. He’d never spoken about this with anyone besides the Losers, and God knows how his father would react if he took the time to piece it together. “What if I’m not?”

Prolonged silence on the other end of the line made Stan think his father had hung up on him, but a shuffle and the sound of a throat being cleared proved him wrong.

_ “I don’t know what’s gotten into your head,” _ his father started, _ “but I expect you to be at Kaplan Accounting at one p.m. sharp on Monday. If you’re late, or you don’t show up, know that I will find out.” _

“Sorry, I’m at work right now,” Stan brushed off, letting his father think that his words were rolling right off Stan’s back, when in fact they were taking root in Stan’s gut, twisting and clenching and ripping it apart. “I’m gonna have to call you back.”

_ “Stanley—” _his father growled, the rest of his sentence cut off as Stan hung up the phone and tossed it down across the table, letting it slide to a stop almost at the edge.

Stan felt like screaming, so he did.

“Whoa, hey, Stan—”

“Shut _ up _, Richie!” Stan stomped around the room, pacing and flinging terribly-aimed kicks at anything within his vicinity, Richie desperately chasing him and trying to calm him down.

“Hey, I’m sure it’s not that bad,” Richie supplied after Stan kicked the bottom of the refrigerator, sending some of the magnets falling to the ground. “I fight with my parents all the time!”

“Yeah, but you’re _ you! _” Stan yelled.

Once he ran out of things to kick he plopped down onto the ground, his body shaking as he rapidly tried to get enough air into his lungs to no avail. He’d never had a full-blown panic attack before; he’d always been in an environment where he’d been able to calm himself down before it evolved into that. But with the mounting stress from senior year, college applications, and now the sudden pressure from his father, Stan found himself unable to stop it as the anxiety became too much.

He sat on the ground and cried, gulping in air when he could, as Richie stood in the middle of the room unmoving and not knowing how to help him.

“What can I do?” Richie asked, voice hoarse. “Tell me what I can do.”

Stan pulled his knees up to his chest, lip trembling. He could barely string a coherent thought together, let alone walk Richie through how to help someone when they’re having a panic attack, but he managed to say the only thing running through his mind anyway. “Mike.”

“Mike?” Richie asked, confusion written on his face. “Who the hell is Mike?”

Right when Stan was about to explain, the door chimed.

“I got it,” Richie assured, already walking toward the front. “Stay there.”

Stan listened and stayed on the floor, staring at the carpet but not seeing as he replayed his conversation with his father. It had been bold of him—too bold, maybe—but on some level, it felt exhilarating to get everything he’d been feeling off his chest. Stan didn’t know what was going to happen after this; if his father would be livid enough to force him to act, or if he’d back off for a little while and let things settle. Either way, Stan tried not to think about it as he steadied his breathing.

He heard Richie shuffling around in the front, talking to someone in urgent tones but not able to make out what they were saying. Stan wasn’t looking at the door when he heard Richie come into the back, followed by another pair of footsteps that were making their way straight toward him. 

“Stan,” Mike said urgently, his voice giving away how affected he was. “Hey, look at me.”

Stan felt a little more calm now than he did before, able to breathe normally and string simple thoughts together. He wiped his eyes with the neck of his work t-shirt and looked up at Mike, knowing his eyes were puffy and his nose was red and his hair was a mess from grabbing it.

Stan saw the look on Mike’s face, trepidation and worry etched across it for all to see, and he thought, there’s no way he’ll stay_ . _

“I’m right here, Stan,” Mike assured, and the way he said it made it unquestionable. An absolute fact. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He sat down next to Stan, wrapping a strong arm around him and pulling him into his chest. Stan instantly felt safe and protected, and at the warm touch across his shoulders and stomach where Mike’s hand wrapped around, he started to cry again.

They sat there for a while, Stan trying to control his emotions while Mike held him, not asking what had happened or why Stan was reacting this way. Richie left them alone after a strong look from Mike, muttering something about getting quarters out of the machines before stalking away out into the main area. Stan didn’t know how long he spent with his head buried in Mike’s shoulder, but by the time his tears ran out and his breathing was normal, his back hurt from being hunched over and his eyes burned.

“Hey,” Mike gentled. “Feeling better?”

Not trusting his voice, Stan nodded. He tried to clear it, but found that his throat was scratchy.

“Um… water?” Stan asked. He ran a hand through his hair, attempting to get it close to being normal, and Mike stood up to grab Stan’s water bottle from the rack on the wall. He brought it back and Stan drank, making sure his voice was at least usable before he sat the bottle down next to him.

“My dad called about an internship he wants me to take,” Stan said unprompted. Not wanting to scare him out of continuing, Mike slowly sat down, waiting for him to keep going at his own speed. “If I take it, it means I’d have to stop working here.”

It was clear that Mike wasn’t following, but Stan hadn’t told him the whole story yet. He launched into the backstory, giving Mike the short version of his history with his father and how he’d always been pushed toward things because his father wanted him to go in that direction. Mike listened with clear interest and compassion, and as Stan bared more of his soul to Mike, he felt something clicking further and further into place.

“You don’t deserve that,” Mike said when Stan had finished. “You deserve the ability to make your own choices.”

“I don’t know what I’d do with that ability,” Stan admitted, quietly picking at a loose thread in the carpet. “I’ve never had to make my own choices.”

“Maybe it’s time to start,” Mike suggested. “What’s something you’ve always wanted to do?”

Stan thought for a moment, then smiled mischievously. He looked up at Mike, his mood already lightening from the thought of what he was about to do.

“Got an idea?” Mike inquired.

Stan’s eyes sparkled. “Make Richie do all the work for once.”

Mike smirked. “Choice number one has been made.”

-

“No, really, who the hell are you?” Richie fired at Mike as he and Stan sat and watched Richie deep clean the display case. “You show up out of nowhere to bring Stanley out of his weird panic thing and now you’re acting like you’re my _ boss?” _Richie sprayed the second shelf with disinfectant and reached his arm in to wipe it back up. “Stan, who is this guy?”

“He’s new in town,” Stan replied giddily. “He just wanted to check the place out.”

Richie rolled his eyes, clearly calling bullshit. “Well, I’m happy for both of you. Invite me to the wedding when it comes so I can crash it.”

“You can’t crash a wedding you’re invited—”

“Only if you invite us to your and Eddie’s wedding,” Mike shot back. “How’s that going by the way?”

Richie paled and ceased the movements of his arm, contorted to the very front of the display in what had to be a very uncomfortable position. “It’s not,” he said, voice shaky. “We’re not—I mean—how do you even know about Eddie anyway?”

“Wow, you rendered Trashmouth speechless,” Stan remarked. “I’m impressed.”

They sat and watched Richie close the arcade by himself, grumbling and complaining the entire time. Stan knew it was just for show, though, because if Richie really didn’t want to do it, he wouldn’t. Richie had a strange, offhand way of showing that he cared, but it was easy enough to decipher that Stan could tell. It made him grateful for Richie in a way he knew didn’t get expressed often, and when Richie said goodnight to him and Mike at exactly eleven, Stan gave him a look that he hoped communicated his gratitude.

Richie just punched his shoulder and said, “Aw, you know I always gotcha, Stanley,” before walking out the door into the night.

Once Richie left and it was just the two of them, Stan’s anxiety from before came back. Mike felt him stiffen and started rubbing his arm comfortingly.

“What is it?”

Stan sighed. “I don’t wanna go home yet.”

“Then don’t,” Mike said. “My grandpa is out of town tonight. You can stay at my place. Um, we have a spare bedroom you could use, of course.”

Stan’s heart started beating wildly. Even in separate rooms, he wasn’t sure if he was quite ready for the whole sharing-a-space-with-Mike thing. He quickly came up with a better idea.

“Could we just… stay here for a little bit?”

Mike softened. “Of course. You haven’t shown me how to play Dig Dug yet, and that’s one of the most popular ones.”

Stan was relieved at Mike’s understanding and quickly pulled him over to the Dig Dug machine, starting it up and grabbing a quarter from his pocket. He showed Mike where the buttons were and what each one did, quickly explaining the basic mechanics.

“I know how it works,” Mike laughed. “I’ve just never played it before.”

Stan watched as Mike started a new game, maneuvering Dig Dug around the screen. When a particularly difficult part appeared, Stan didn’t feel like watching Mike lose and having to grab his quarter out of the back to reinsert it, so he moved closer and muttered “hold on” before placing his hands over Mike’s on the machine. It was as close as they’d been yet, almost back to chest, Stan’s sweaty palms on top of Mike’s softer ones.

“Here, like this,” Stan said, barely above a whisper, and pressed Mike’s hands down in the right places so Dig Dug went through the obstacle easily. Stan was getting flustered, his cheeks red and breath shaky. He could have slid himself away from Mike now that the tricky part had passed, but he didn’t.

He felt Mike move behind him and he turned to say something, only to realize that their faces were incredibly close. Stan could see the neon graphics from the game reflected in Mike’s eyes, the pores in his skin, and his slightly chapped lips from working in the sun. Their faces were inches away, yet neither he nor Mike moved to separate them.

“Hey Stan,” Mike breathed just loud enough for him to hear.

“Yeah?” Stan replied in the same cadence, waiting.

Waiting.

“Maybe,” Mike faltered, then continued. “Maybe it’s time to make another choice.”

Before Stan could even think, he was pushing forward and kissing Mike. His hands left the arcade machine to find a place in Mike’s t-shirt, warm and soft and everything that made him think _ home _. Stan didn’t really know how to kiss, and instead of being totally lost to the sensation, he was desperately hoping he was doing it right, He worried until Mike moved his hands to rest on Stan’s jaw and started gently kissing him back.

The feel of the other boy’s lips moving against his own caused fireworks to spark at the base of Stan’s skull, shooting down through his spine and fizzling throughout his body even as cliche as it sounded. He found himself thinking, _oh_ _ . _

_ This is what I’ve been missing . _

Mike pulled away and Stan felt lightheaded, keeping his eyes closed and just breathing, his hands still fisted in Mike’s t-shirt.

“You okay?” he asked.

“‘M fine,” Stan slurred, lazily opening his eyes to meet Mike’s.

“I think we lost the game.”

Stan turned around to see the clear GAME OVER on the screen, flashing for them to insert another quarter. Stan giggled, turning back to Mike and throwing his arms around his neck.

“You know what?” Stan asked cheekily.

Mike’s grin was as wide as Stan had ever seen it. “What?”

Stan pulled Mike closer, angling his head up and speaking right against his lips. “I don’t really care.”

He closed the distance between them again, and as the chorus to Heart’s “_ What About Love?” _played in the background, Stan felt ready to take on whatever his father was going to throw at him. No matter what happened when he went home, when he didn’t show up for the internship, and when he eventually started his senior year of high school on a different path than before, he knew it would be okay if he had Mike by his side.

As they kissed in the middle of Spirit Arcade, taking short breaks to laugh and talk in between, Stan felt that maybe the owners were onto something keeping the place open.

No matter the reason, Stan was grateful. Because if anyone looked into that little arcade from the eighties, they’d see two boys falling in love, the happiest they’d ever been.

**Author's Note:**

> kayley's wonderful art can be found [here](https://scribbleclown.tumblr.com/post/186725194110/in-the-spirit-of-falling-in-love-my-piece-for) and you can talk to me [here!](https://vhspeach.tumblr.com)


End file.
